


Cauldron

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take a soul, and cut it in half. (a poem)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cauldron

**Author's Note:**

> Slash or not depends on how you interpret it. Also found on my [Tumblr](http://a-daub-of-cerulean.tumblr.com/post/21784577838). :)

The road is the cauldron.

Throw in a toddler, four-and-one-half.  
Throw him onto  
an asphalt road scorching in   
the summer, or throw him  
into a fire in the   
brisk November air.

Then toss a bundle in his arms  
and turn the gears   
and wheels,  
and wheels that sped away  
from what used to be  
their home.

A liter of rain,  
wet on lashes and button nose,  
wet down the throat   
of a   
father,   
out the neck  
of a Whiskey bottle.

An ounce of hand-me-down  
responsibilities;  
a pint of childhoods gone  
wrong. 

Crack the shell of two  
hearts against the bowl,  
and whisk the contents with  
a beater until golden and thoroughly,  
utterly blended.

A few pinches of reticence  
through  
collected words and  
a fright of setting them free.  
A couple of shakes of   
I Love You’s easily  
said to  
everyone but  
those who mattered.   
Few shreds of confessions lost  
at the corners of their mouths,  
sediments that  
gradually  
plastered them shut for good.   
Grind down a fine flour  
—oh, make it satin fine, if you will.   
Dump  
the contents on  
opposite ends,  
but those things  
always clump back  
together.

Just a couple daubs of solitude,  
wordless rapport,  
amid the  
silence with chins raised   
high, and splash  
it off with a silver of  
stars.   
Take an ashen sifter,  
and pour through its net a crimson  
blend of love and devotion and  
good intentions,   
and watch the blue trickle  
out the other end.   
Throw in a rubber band  
of  _Love, family, whatever it is,_  
stretch it to the future and  
watch it snap   
back by itself. 

And wave a wand,  
hear the ignition kick in,  
stir the pot  
and watch the  
chunks helplessly  
tumble at the mercy of your spoon.   
Once in a while  
pinch a bit of sweet smiles in  
your fingertips and sprinkle  
it atop the burgundy that becomes  
what they’ve bled.   
Don’t forget this step,   
or bitter  
will the stew become.

The fire lights,  
and the sun blares too hot so they  
ride with the windows down  
and the wind whisking  
stray hair  
into their eyes.

  
The road is the cauldron, and  
it brewed a love kindled  
by battered faces and  
bleeding knees,  
matching scars and  
matching stitches.  
Closed hearts and  
scorching suns and  
fires in November air.   
Crimson blends of love  
and love  
and love  
bleeding down his lips as he  
watched the boy in a baby blue blanket fall  
into that fire once  
again. By  
redundant words   
better unsaid, because  
all it really takes is an accidental flare  
that dances across an iris and  
everything   
is understood.

 

Take a soul, and cut it in half.

Mold two bodies from little stars.

Amalgamate in collective silence. 

Then,

Throw in the toddler,   
four-and-one-half,   
and toss the other in his arms.

 


End file.
